


imagery isn't the best way to hide from your feelings

by fab_ia



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, an abundance of metaphors, and me using fiction to avoid doing homework, implied nsfw, jacobi likes fire, toxic! kepcobi is pretty goddamn effed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 16:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12324822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia
Summary: "You wonder, sometimes, if you would have ever made a good artist. You can’t help but imagine the technique is similar- a steady hand, delicate tools, a careful eye and a completely blank canvas, to start with, before you can get to work with any combination of colours that you want-Okay, so maybe the analogy doesn’t work quite as well as you’d like it to, but your point still stands."daniel jacobi doesn't particularly like silence, but he certainly likes words.





	imagery isn't the best way to hide from your feelings

You wonder, sometimes, if you would have ever made a good artist. You can’t help but imagine the technique is similar- a steady hand, delicate tools, a careful eye and a completely blank canvas, to start with, before you can get to work with any combination of colours that you want-

Okay, so maybe the analogy doesn’t work _quite_ as well as you’d like it to, but your point still stands. Hell, maybe you should have become an English teacher, or a chemistry teacher, or anything that doesn’t put you in such close proximity to open flames, and you are, of course, still being metaphorical, but that doesn’t change your opinion. Warren Kepler, as you see him, is more or less a kind of open flame, and you are almost like a moth in that you seem to be drawn to him. Inexplicable, really, but you do wonder, often, all the time- _when are you going to burn yourself out?_

It isn’t love, not in the traditional sense of Valentines and gentle kisses on the cheek, chocolates and crimson (scarlet, carnelian, ruby) hearts- no, what it is is passion. Kisses, shared during the heat of the moment between the two of you, are packed with enough force to bruise, the scrapes of teeth that would be enjoyable for most leave a taste of copper behind in your mouth, and instead of hushed and whispered “I love you”’s, what you often choke out as his fingers dance across your skin is “God, I hate you”. What you get out of it shows you that this is what he wants- he smiles, white teeth and narrowing eyes, and he kisses you then, takes the lingering acidity and bitterness from your lips.

“Spend the night,” he sometimes says, as the two of you sit across a table together- his whiskey by his laptop, amber in the dim overhead lighting of the bar, and your choice of alcohol for the night (whatever’s cheapest, unless he’s buying) empty beside your own. You don’t reply- you don’t have to reply, not unless you’re going to refuse, and you never have before- but you stay silent, type a few more sentences, take a drink from your glass. Across the table, he mirrors you exactly,except for his lips forming a smirk while yours remain so carefully still, and you wonder if anybody who looks at you has ever been able to guess the true nature of your relationship. A foolish thought, if you’re honest, since you barely even know the truth yourself. You aren’t dating, and whatever you have is exclusive, but what to call it? For once, words escape you, and you are a fan of words.

So is he, it turns out, when he turns from the window (and his face, when silhouetted against the sunset like that is  _gorgeous_ ) with his favourite, half-smirk half-grin and says, low and with his drawl more prominent than ever in his rough, husky voice and says "Mr Jacobi, did I ever tell you the story of-" and he takes his pick from the banks of fiction within his brain, picks out a fanciful tale, and you let yourself relax as you listen, his voice almost comforting in its familiarity. You fancy that you've memorised every single one of the tones that he uses with you.

 

“How’d it happen the first time?” Maxwell asks one night, laptop balancing precariously on her knees as she takes a sip from the beer that sits on the corner of your table. “I mean,” she continues as you pull a face, “no offence, Jacobi, but you hardly seem the type to fall in love with a psychopath. Now, a _serial killer_ , I could see, and it’d explain the books on the fucking criminal history of the USA-”

“Thanks for saying I’ve got some kind of weird murder fetish,” you snort. “I don’t love him, anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

 

How exactly do you tell her that no, you _aren’t_ sure, because you don’t even really know what love is? Is love something that makes your heart feel like it’s trying to make its way out of your ribcage on wings of happiness and joy, or is it closer to what you do feel, in that it’s your whole chest being constricted by ropes and chains of fire, searing Kepler’s brand deep into your skin, blackening and scarring as you arch your back, hiss out “ah, _fuck_ ,” as Kepler only laughs, pushes you back down onto the bed with one hand?

You really wish there was a Yahoo answers page for this.

There isn’t.

You’ve looked.

 

The real question, now, is why the hell he lets you stay the night after you- well, share a bed in more ways than is generally accepted- why he lets you share the night after working late, you’ll say, and why he’s such a goddamn clingy sleeper. Plus, he’s always awake before you in the morning, even though you routinely wake up at half four in the morning, now, but he’s never there, and his house (which is absolutely huge) is completely silent and still, save for your footsteps and breaths that are slightly heavier than usual. You don’t have nightmares. You have memories, which are infinitely worse, in the end.

He comes back at six. He is never surprised to see you sat at the kitchen counter, and he greets you with a small nod as he opens the fridge.

These mornings are a twisted and perverted sort of domestic, in a way, as he makes breakfast while you swing your legs below you on the stool, head propped up on one hand as you text with the other. Who it is depends- Klein, who’s on the next crew for the Hermes mission (hopefully, they’re going to do better than the last lot), Maxwell, who seems to be almost nocturnal, some days, or one of the guys you work with down in the ballistics labs at Goddard. Kepler never asks. He doesn’t ask, because he doesn't care, and you have a hard time remembering that when he shoves a plate of food in front of you, and gives you another, almost painful kiss before he sits down with his own, across from you.

 

A twisted kind of domesticity, then. That’s the best way you could ever describe it.

 

“Spend the night with me,” he whispers into your ear as you sit, bent over your laptop and your blueprints, and this time, you close your eyes, grateful that you’re facing away from him.

“Alright,” you breathe. His lips brush the back of your head, hand trails up your arm.

“I’ll see you at six thirty,” he says. One of the others in the lab wolf-whistles, and your face doesn’t even heat up. Aren't you ashamed- aren't you ashamed that they all know, now, if they didn’t before?

 

Possible. Unlikely.

You’ve never been one to be ashamed of things.

 

It isn’t love- you don’t think it’s love. You hope it isn’t, at any rate.

You hate him, but you know him- you know him well, so well- better than the rest, and you’d give your life for him if it came to it. Honestly, you’re surprised it never has.

What is it, then?

Passion- burning, fiery, red-hot passion?

Is it merely passion?

No.

 

No, you know what it is. You just don’t want to say it.

 

 

It’s love, but it’s the most twisted and fucked-up version of it that’s ever existed. It’s the kind of love that walks the tightrope between love and hate, desire and detest, with a tremor in its step.

 

“I hate you,” you breathe as you rest your forehead against his chest, and you try to convince yourself that that’s all it is. Kepler laughs, because he knows that it's not.

**Author's Note:**

> well! if you enjoyed that, catch me over on tumblr @sciencematter <3


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